Nail Polish
by ChangelingbyChoice
Summary: Caught up in solving a case, Sherlock is forced to resort to desperate - if somewhat comical - measures to get the evidence he needs. But what will happen when things take a turn for the sinister?
1. Polish and Pizzazz

**Nail Polish **

_~ Chapter One ~_

**Polish and Pizzazz**

Weak cloud-muted sunlight streamed through the windows of 221b Baker Street, illuminating the distinctive features of its first inhabitant, Sherlock Holmes. Said inhabitant was precariously perched on the wide leathery arm of the sofa, hunched intently over his latest endeavor. His icy eyes narrowed in concentration as he worked, and a pink sliver of tongue peeked subconsciously through his lips. A stubborn whorl of dark hair flopped into his eyes for the umpteenth time, and he let out a frustrated grunt, for he couldn't spare his hands to swipe it away. Helplessly he puffed air at it, but to no avail. So, defeated, he turned back to his all-important task, trying uselessly to ignore the traitorous curls.

It was then that John, 221b's other occupant, chose to stroll into the room. One of his blocky hands cradled a steaming mug of tea, and the other clutched that day's crossword puzzle. Scratching his grey-speckled hair with the crossword, he asked,

"Sherlock, what have you done with my pen? There was one on my desk just yester- Hang on… What are you doing there?" The detective looked up from his work, arched an eyebrow and inquired sarcastically,

"What does it look like I'm doing?" John's gaze flickered from the minute brush in Sherlock's hand to the tiny red bottle balanced on the couch cushion to the nails of the detective's bare feet that were positioned on either side of it. The answer wasn't hard to grasp.

"You're… painting your toenails," he said numbly.

"And I'll be starting on my fingers once I finish up. Honestly, I can't fathom how women muster up the strength of will to accomplish this. The fiddly little brush is next to useless, and one must apply five coats at least to get the color advertised on the label…" Sherlock trailed off, quietly grumbling about the woes of nail polish. For a few minutes, John could only stand there gawking. At last he scraped together enough of his scattered wits to mumble,

"Right then. Just don't get any on the sofa. Or the carpet. Or… anywhere but your nails." Thoroughly disoriented, he turned around and made to amble back to the safety of his room, but something made him pause.

Sherlock had been acting rather strangely… more so than usual, that is. Whenever they were out and about, the detective would drag him into various trendy fashion boutiques to browse the tailor-made brightly-colored selection. In fact, he had even tried on a few. That was disconcerting in and of itself.

Then was the reading material. It was nothing new to see Sherlock bowed over a law book or a cobwebby old case file, but now his tastes seemed a little more varied. More often than not John would glance over the detective's shoulder to see the glossy pages of a style magazine spread open across his knee. He seemed quite intrigued by it too, especially the hair and makeup section.

And that lead to another issue entirely. Sherlock seemed to be focusing on personal grooming to an almost feminine extent, bathing daily, preening constantly, and even brushing his hair, something John had never seen him do; not even once. Also the Spartan collection of hair products they kept was swelling at an alarming rate, and nearly all of them belonged to the detective who once scorned another man for wearing them in his hair. If it wasn't so bizarrely out of character, John would've found this new streak of hypocrisy hilarious.

Most unusual of all however was the makeup segment of the problem. At odd hours of the day - often after perusing a fashion magazine – Sherlock would retreat to the bathroom and lock himself in, sometimes for hours on end. When he finally emerged, his face was red, and his eyes were slightly puffy as if he had been vigorously scrubbing them to remove something. On one memorable occasion he had burst through the door with a shout of pain, scrabbling at his streaming bloodshot left eye while ferociously fending off John's offers of assistance. Thinking back on the incident, the doctor could've sworn he had seen a smear of something black on his colleague's face before he had fled into his room. Eyeliner he guessed, or mascara. Or both.

But why? Sherlock seemed as straight as they come, and disinterested in romance to boot. He didn't appear to be the type who would suddenly revert to drag queen. On the other hand, he was Sherlock for God's sake, with him anything was possible.

"Look," John began awkwardly, "You don't have to be… y'know, embarrassed or anything. There's no need to hide it, just… be yourself I suppose." Sherlock skewered him with a curious penetrating look as he bumbled along. "Mrs. Hudson won't mind, she seems to be alright with… y'know…" he gestured at the detective's drying toenails, "That kind of… thing. And if… if anyone gives you any sort of t-trouble about it, I'll take care of them." Confusion manifested itself in Sherlock's furrowed brows as he asked,

"What kind of thing?"

"Don't try to keep it from me! What with all you've been doing it's gotten rather obvious. But remember Sherlock what I said that night at Angelo's: It's all fine, and I meant it. You'll still be my friend, style preferences aside."

"Style preferences? Oh!" Understanding dawned on the detective's narrow face. "Before you continue running whatever dignity you've got left into the ground, I suppose I should mention it's for a case."

"A case?" blurted John.

"Yes. Why else would I be buying so many wretched beauty products? Married to my work, remember?"

"Right," A flush of humiliation crept conspicuously up John's neck and into his cheeks. "I just thought because you were skulking around so much-"

"Don't think, it doesn't become you," was the brusque answer he received. "Now help me with my hands, will you? I'll never be able to do my right."

"Okay," reluctantly the doctor set aside his now lukewarm cup of tea, and picked up the tiny brush. Sherlock impatiently thrust out his hands and John began to work, tackling the task with the precise skill of a surgeon. An oppressive silence settled over the room like a heavy quilt in the middle of summer.

After a tense eternity or two John gather the resolve to break it, and did so by asking,

"So, do you want to talk about it?" When the detective shot him a withering look he added, "The case! I meant the case!" In less than a nanosecond Sherlock's mood switched gears. His eyes glittered with excitement and he took a deep breath, and action that usually signaled a lengthy speech. An involuntary sigh whispered past John's slightly parted lips. Perhaps stony silence was the preferable alternative after all. But it was too late now, for Sherlock was already in full case-cracking mode.

"It had started as a simple disappearance report. Lillian Woodward, female, aged twenty-nine was reported missing from her flat nearly a month ago by her brother, Stan Woodward. He came over for tea as he always did once a month, but when he arrived, she wasn't there. The door was open, and there were signs of a struggle, so a kidnapping was suspected.

"Now Stan seemed quite distraught to Lestrade, but it was obvious - to me anyway – that he was faking. His lack of eye contact, slight flush and shaking hands were all chalked up to grief and worry, but it couldn't have been. His eyes were completely dry, not a tear in sight; guilt written all over him.

"But _why! _It could've been anything from mild jealousy to a full-blown mental disorder that prompted him. There's always a reason. I just don't know what!" Sherlock made to gesture vehemently with his hands, but John yelped,

"Don't! You'll smudge them!" and eased them gently back to their starting position on his knees. Sherlock was forced to be content with a muted growl instead. After a brief session of the silent treatment, the detective somewhat huffily resumed his report.

"As I was saying, I needed to find the motive. Despite appealing to Lestrade with my findings, he said he wouldn't bring Woodward in for questioning until I found some 'real' evidence." Disgruntled, Sherlock wrinkled his nose, and pursed his lips. "So, I was forced to dig deeper. A brief internet search confirmed what I already knew: Woodward is a young man in his early thirties - thirty-two to be precise - , he is quite athletic - plays football and rugby -, and he's gay.

"That is the most useful bit of information so far. One of my homeless network has told me Woodward frequents a bar called Club Pizzazz, a rather unruly establishment from what I've heard. I intend to find him there and question him anonymously. And since it is, after all, a gay bar, a proper disguise is in order. Understand me now?"

"Yeah, I… yeah," John stammered. "Right. Your nails are done, so… so I'll just… y'know…" he eased himself off the sofa, gathered his neglected crossword and rather chilly tea, and then tiptoed off to the relative safety of his room.

Once he reached the door, he turned around, and, against his better judgment, glanced back at the detective. Sherlock, still huddled on the sofa, was examining his freshly lacquered nails most effeminately. His elegant spidery fingers flexed as he gazed contentedly at his outstretched hand. This display was eerily convincing, so much so that Sherlock simply couldn't be faking. But, then again, this was the same detective who could be wracked with piteous sobs one moment, and then suddenly shut them off in favor of morbid glee.

It was just too much for John to process at the moment. So his brain simply pushed them aside, allowing him to drift undisturbed into the peaceful solace provided by his crossword puzzle.

A few hours later, John tentatively deemed it safe to emerge from his sanctuary. He crept into the kitchen, looked around of any recent signs of beautification, then having found nothing, proceeded to make dinner. Well, attempt to make dinner.

The fridge was bare aside from the omnipresent selection of body parts and a moldering bowl of sludge that had once been oatmeal. A quick search through the cabinets heralded a dismal result as well. Only a half-eaten bit of toast lurked in a dark corner where Sherlock had probably abandoned it when John wasn't looking. A shopping trip was definitely in order.

Without warning, the bathroom door thundered open, causing John to start and fumble with the scrap of toast. When Sherlock waltzed into the room a few seconds later, the toast dropped to the floor along with John's astonished jaw.

A completely different Sherlock stood before him. Gone were his customary button-down and slacks. In their place was a pair of tight-fitting garishly red trousers and an equally snug black t-shirt with a revealing v-neck. His tousled curls were combed neatly, glistening with gel and arranged to perfection. Swooping black eyeliner completed the look by accentuating his electric eyes.

Right down to the tips of his crimson nails, Sherlock looked completely and utterly gay. Paralyzed by the sheer weirdness of it all, John couldn't look away.

"So John," Sherlock asked seriously, "How do I look?"

"Erm…"

"Never mind, your opinion is probably useless anyway." Despite the makeup, Sherlock's biting wit was unhampered and his attitude was businesslike. This was for a case after all. "I'm going out. Don't wait up," he added, checking his reflection in the gleaming side of an empty test tube. Apparently satisfied, he smoothed his hair, turned on his heel, and swaggered out of the flat.

It was a good two minutes before John regained the presence of mind to rescue the toast from the floor. Two more passed before he got around to tossing it in the waste basket. Dazedly he meandered over to the window and peered outside. Sherlock, rather conspicuous in his red trousers had hailed a cab and was just climbing inside. Its headlights flashed in the evening air as it swerved back into traffic.

Only after it had vanished around the corner did John realize he had forgotten something very important: He had neglected to take pictures of Sherlock when he was all dressed up! They would've fetched an admirable sum at Scotland Yard amongst Sherlock's antagonists.

God knows how much they needed the money.

~SH~

Fifteen minutes later, the cab had disgorged its flamboyantly clad passenger onto the curb before his rather opposite destination. 'Club Pizzazz' conspicuously lacked what it was named for, sporting worn down walls, smudged windows, and a dismal patch of cracked parking lot. Palpitating neon lights reluctantly lit up the eves of the building, spelling out the broken words 'lub 'zazz' in loopy cursive. Graffiti sprawled carelessly across the walls, adding to the run-down quality of the place.

Ignoring this, Sherlock stroked back his hair, and plucked at the front of his uncomfortably tight shirt. How _did _people _stand _it? Lestrade would pay… real evidence indeed…

He pushed his resentment aside (only for the moment - he could stew in it later) then opened the shabbily painted door. The distinctive odor of liquor was the first thing his nose detected, and then a seductive whiff of cigarette smoke. Before he could restrain himself, his head snapped toward its source. The stress of keeping himself well groomed had taken its toll; he had nearly caved in yesterday. Only a sound rap across the knuckles from John's newspaper made him remember his cold turkey pledge.

After regaining control of his cravings, Sherlock picked his way past a ramshackle sitting area packed with moth-eaten couches and several rickety tables before he reached the bar counter. Edging around an amorous couple on their way out, he took a seat on one of the squeaky barstools… but not just any one.

Hunched beside him was his target: Stan Woodward. He was a tall man, taller than Sherlock himself, and much broader. It was plain to see that under his light shirt and jacket he was quite well-muscled. A scattering of stubble dusted his prominent chin, and his fingers drummed distractedly against the tabletop.

Sherlock spun on his stool to face Woodward, and tapped him gently on the shoulder. When he turned, the detective, adopting a slightly higher tone and a cockney lilt asked,

"Stan Woodward?"

"Yeah?" he replied quizzically.

"Owen Williamson," Sherlock extended a hand to Woodward who shook it hesitantly. "I read that story 'bout your sister in the paper. Nasty bit 'o business, that. My condolences."

"Oh, thanks," Stan directed his gaze toward a smudge on the counter and released Sherlock's hand. A half second of silence passed, in which the detective noted a dull flush suffuse Stan's face. Seemingly eager to shift the conversation away from him, he said, "So, do you come here often?"

"Nah, first time. Yourself?" With a noncommittal shrug Stan replied,

"Eh, every now and again."

"So do you know what's worth drinking at this place?"

"Try the Pizzazz Special. It's a real knock-out, so to speak." He waved the bartender, a short greasy looking chap over and said, "Two Pizzazz Specials on me. You know what to do. "The bartender nodded, then stalked off.

"Wow, mate!" Sherlock exclaimed, "Thanks! It's me though who shoulda been buyin' you the drink what with that business about your sister. Must be dreadful!" Still staring determinedly at the smudge, Stan murmured,

"Well, I can't exactly say it was pleasant."

"What was it then?" pressed the detective, carefully maintaining his accent. "How did you feel? What happened? It was all very hush hush in the papers."

"I… I wasn't… it was all very shocking." The drinks arrived, pale lime-green liquor in delicate glasses. Stan picked his up and took a swig in an attempt to steady his shaking voice. As Sherlock raised his glass in turn, his eyes met the bartender's from across the room where he was serving another customer. Quickly he glanced away, leaving a twinge of suspicion behind for Sherlock.

Before he had time to sort through any possible reasons for this, Stan began talking again.

""The door had been forced open… The lock was broken. Her flat was a mess… she had struggled…" The detective nodded and took a sip of his drink. A bitter tang scalded his throat as he swallowed. As much as he didn't wish to dull his mind for the investigation, not accepting a free drink would've been quite unusual. For the sake of the case he took another burning tingling swallow, mentally cursing Lestrade as he did so.

As Stan went on to describe the arrival of the police, Sherlock was finding it difficult to keep track of the story. A faint buzz lingered in his ears, rendering them far less useful than he would've liked. What little he could hear was muted and garbled with a tinny quality as if it had been recorded on a cheap mobile phone. His powerful razor-sharp brain had become a sieve; useful information drained through the gaps and away into oblivion. Bleary and unfocussed, his black-lined eyes roved lazily around the room, at last coming to rest on Stan's jacket sleeve.

The material was finely made, _foreign_, Sherlock's addled mind supplied, _expensive too_. What would a man like Woodward be doing with a garment like that? He was young, hadn't had a college education, and was unemployed, judging by the tense lines around his mouth. A jacket of that caliber would've cost enough to make nearly fifty percent of Londoners file for bankruptcy if they purchased it. How then did_ he_?

The detective blinked forcefully, trying fruitlessly to cling to his battered broken-down train of thought. His recalcitrant mind jarringly switched gears, catapulting his limited awareness to the state of Stan's legs. Firm and well muscled just like the rest of him, clearly an athlete's limbs. They were clad in shorts that stopped just above the knee, unusual considering the chill of London. But more unusual still was the total lack of disfigurement. Being involved in full-body contact sports such as rugby, at least a bruise or two was to be expected. In football too injured legs were a common occurrence. Sometimes the players simply missed the ball and kicked each other. This man's skin was completely unscathed, not even a scratch on him.

_Wrong, wrong, wrong_! The words blared like a fire alarm inside the doctor's foggy head. Agonizingly they jangled inside his skull, smashing any rational thoughts to smithereens if they dared to impose. This man was wrong, these sensations were wrong, it was all wrong! He had to get out!

Sliding gracelessly from his perch, he made to bolt for the door, but his legs turned to traitorous jelly and he crumpled to the floor. This wasn't just a side-effect of the alcohol… he had been drugged! Desperately he thrashed around, trying to right himself, but to no avail. His body would not obey. He was fused to the floor, heavier than a concrete block, well and truly helpless.

In the distance, Stan's voice cried,

"Hey! You alright?" When the detective didn't respond, Stan said, "You look like you've had a few too many. Don't know where you live, so all that can be done is just let you sleep it off. Hope you don't have any plans tomorrow!" Strong vice-like arms encircled Sherlock's chest and hauled him upright. Lips tickled his ear and warm breath rustled his hair as Stan leaned in behind him and whispered, "By the way, Jim says hello… Sherlock Holmes." _Jim? Jim who? How does he know my name? _Sherlock struggled to think as his awareness came crashing down around him. The annoying buzz in his ears escalated into a roar like a runaway train. _Jim… Jim…_

Suddenly it hit him. His world shattered into a billion shimmering pieces under the weight of this last spark of clarity. As the shards deteriorated into black dust and the malevolent bellowing train overtook him the answer was still painfully clear:

_Jim Moriarty._

Then the crystalline insight blinked out, and the dust swallowed him whole.

~SH~

**A/N: **So, here's chapter one! I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I did writing it! This story was actually spawned from a discussion with a friend (and fellow Sherlockian) of mine. We were painting our toenails at the time, and suddenly a picture of Sherlock painting _his _toenails sprang to mind. I, through a debilitating storm of giggles, told her about it, and asked her why he might be painting his nails in the first place. We came to the conclusion that it was a disguise for some sort of case. I simply had to write it. It was too much fun to pass up! It was meant to be just a one-shot, but… yeah, obviously that's not going to happen. The next chapters will be up as fast as I can type them.

Oh, by the way, don't forget to review! It's the greatest motivation ever, and it'll speed up my regrettably slow typing.


	2. Unravel the Threads

**Nail Polish **

_~Chapter Two~_

**Unravel the Threads **

A dreadful taste in his mouth was the first thing Sherlock became aware of when he came to. His tongue was a useless slab of meat glued to his palate by congealed saliva. _Rather like that severed head John hated so much, _he mused distantly. John. Was John here?

_No, _his brain chided, _but someone else is. _

Woodward. The name brought back a deluge of memories. Questions, a pale green drink, an expensive jacket, strange feelings, and Jim Moriarty. Then everything dissolved into nothing. Drugs. Moriarty.

Quickly Sherlock's flinty eyes snapped open. Too quickly he realized when the water stained ceiling above whirled dizzyingly. A miserable groan slithered past his clenched teeth before he could gather the presence of mind to stifle it. Inwardly he cringed. Such stupidity would-

"So, you're finally awake." – alert Woodward. His voice reverberated through Sherlock's head, and the detective whimpered and clapped his hands over his ears. Stan laughed at the display, perhaps a little louder than necessary as Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block out the awful pounding in his temples. "Can't hold your liquor, eh?"

"Rather difficult when it's drugged," Sherlock murmured, easing his eyes open again. They were in a small dimly-lit room that was filthier than the bar itself and sparsely furnished with only a sofa over which Sherlock was sprawled, and a wooden chair. No carpet covered the bare concrete floor, and the walls were painted an unappealing shade of beige. A few cleaning supplies sat mournfully by the door looking sad and unused. "Where are we?"

"Janitor's lounge. He quit a while ago as you might've noticed - the place is a pig sty - so no one will come in here. Too bad…" Stan smirked wickedly, showing a glint of his white teeth, "For you. Jim will be pleased."

But he's not here," remarked Sherlock. "If he was, I would know… he so enjoys dramatic entrances. Speaking of which…" The detective paused to glance back at the jacket, "He bought you that. Couldn't have afforded it yourself." Stan smiled wider.

"So you are clever… just like he says. Suppose that's why he likes you so much… but," he sing-songed, "He likes me more!" Another dazzling starburst of clarity hit Sherlock with the force of a speeding bus. Everything had come together, including Moriarty and Woodward.

"Picking up his habits already?" he inquired, "Well, that is what lovers tend to do. What other habits have you picked up Stan? Speaking in falsetto? Killing old women? _Kidnapping?_" Sherlock had propped himself up on one elbow and was staring straight into Woodward's eyes. With simmering intensity, Woodward stared back. Tension swelled to a crescendo for an edgy moment until Stan glanced away, defeated.

"You got me. I did the kidnapping. It wasn't that hard, I just rang the bell and invited her out for tea. Took her away and kept her hidden. Jim sent people to trash the flat." He ducked his head and ran a hand through his close-cropped red hair. "She won't be hurt though, that's what he told me. She's a good girl. The only one who stood up for me when I… when my parents found out."

Good to know," Sherlock replied breezily as if Stan had just asked him what he wanted to eat for lunch. "Now let's talk about you and Jim. When's the happy announcement going to be?" When or if there was to be a happy announcement would never be found out. From Sherlock's pocket his mobile rang, smothering Stan's indignant spluttering. The detective pried it from his uncomfortably tight trousers and glanced at the screen. He rolled his eyes and sighed vexedly, but pressed the answer button nonetheless.

Before he could speak a word however, Stan's fist connected with his jaw, turning his reluctant greeting into a pained yelp. His phone dropped from his astonished hand and clattered to the floor, skittering under the sofa like an offended crab. Massaging his aching jaw, the detective snapped,

"So, Moriarty has you kidnap your own sister, drug me senseless, and drag me into the janitor's lounge of some seedy bar just to beat me up like an undersized university student? Honestly, you could've just saved me the trouble and just done it at the crime scene!"

~SH~

On the other side of the call connection, Mycroft's heart gave a stutter. Sherlock had been drugged and now lay in a janitor's lounge at the mercy of one of Moriarty's thugs.

"So when will he be here?" asked his brother's disembodied voice, "I bet he won't be pleased that you hit me." _He _was probably Moriarty himself. And someone had _hit _Sherlock? Mycroft's eyes narrowed into dangerous slits. Even though he himself had wanted to hit his brother (and allow others to hit his brother) on numerous occasions it simply wasn't done. He had promised to protect him after all.

"Anthea," he called sedately, his calm tone masking the worry roiling in his gut. "Get John. Tell him it is a matter of utmost urgency. Sherlock is in danger." Her heavily lidded eyes widened and she opened her mouth, but Mycroft cut her off. "I'll explain on the way. Go now. I'm tracking his phone's signal. Anthea nodded and trotted from the room.

_Stay put Sherlock, _he thought, _we'll find you. Just please don't do anything foolish…_

~SH~

"What do you mean _'he won't be pleased'?_" mimicked Stan, "He told me to have some fun with you. That I'd earned it. I suppose it's my reward… and I intend to collect." To this chilling statement Sherlock barely reacted. Only one eyebrow rose incredulously as he quipped,

"Reward? Is your relationship really so shallow that he needs to hand out treats to you like a master to his dog?" Stan reddened furiously as Sherlock continued. "Can he make you do tricks? _Sit Stan! Roll over Stan! Go fetch Sherlock, Stan! _And you enjoy it!" he spat disgustedly. "Love turns perfectly sane people into crazed lunatics!" Before another word could escape his contemptuous lips, Stan's tightly coiled fist lashed out and smashed into them, flinging the detective's head back. His body followed and he slid off the couch, landing with a thud on his back. Winded, he gasped for breath, eyes wide, fearful.

The athletic Woodward prowled calmly to where he lay.

"Love may turn people into fools, but what does this drug turn _you _into? Nothing but a…" Slowly, maliciously, he raised one of his heavy sandal-covered feet next to Sherlock's heaving torso. "Helpless…" He drew it back, and then kicked. "Useless…" he struck again. "Child!" And again. And again and again and again.

With every brutal blow Sherlock's body convulsed, and a sharp cry was jerked from his lips. He squeezed his eyes shut against both the pain and the uninvited tears that arrived in its wake. This was wrong. He was better at this. No one saw him this way. He never let them. But this time it was worse; his battered ribs burned white-hot and every breath pricked like needles at his lungs.

"See?" Stan said, "The drug makes you weak. You feel pain more freely now. You can't even stand!" he chortled as Sherlock struggled to get to his feet, failing miserably, never making it past a shaky kneeling position. "All the better for me though. Jim doesn't want you to get away." Again Stan advanced, and an icy dagger of fear drove itself unbidden into the detective's heart. Up to the very hilt.

~SH~

Absentmindedly, John hummed along to a jingle playing distantly on the telly as he flitted about the kitchen putting away groceries. The cabinets and fridge were full again (with food, not body parts) and would hopefully stay that way for a while. Emergency grocery shopping was a bit of a drag, but his time at least he was able to avoid the chip and pin machines!

The doorbell buzzed and the doctor sighed, set down the loaf of bread he was about to put away, then ran a hand through his graying hair. He hoped it wasn't another door-to-door salesperson. The chances of that were slim however, considering Sherlock's hatred of them. He came up with creative, if somewhat cruel ways of deterring them, and oh how they worked!

John lollopped down the stars and opened the door. When he saw who stood before him, salespeople fled from his mind.

It was Anthea in her usual stylish clothing and skillful makeup. Her face was drawn and when john glanced down at her hands, he saw that her phone that she was perpetually fiddling with was nowhere in sight. This, to John, was more alarming than anything. If Anthea was upset, then Mycroft must be upset as well. What could make Mycroft-?

Suddenly the puzzle pieces fell into place. As Anthea opened her mouth to speak, she was interrupted when John demanded,

"What has Sherlock gotten into this time?"

"Get in the car. I'll explain on the way." It was the fact that she offered to explain that frightened John the most. Normally when Mycroft's people showed up, they simply whisked him away without a word. If Anthea had to explain, then the situation must be an extremely grim one.

Silently he clambered into the car, and Anthea entered behind him. She gave a nod to the driver, and they sped off down the street. As John buckled his seatbelt, he pleaded mentally, _Sherlock, don't you dare be dead when I get to you. Lestrade will have all sorts of questions about your clothes that _I'll _have to answer. Besides, I don't think I can accept that my last moment with you was spent trying to ignore your toenails. So please, _please, _don't do anything stupid…_

~SH~

Stupidity was the last thing on Sherlock's mind at present. The only thought pulsing through his drug-addled brain was _get out, get out, get out! _But his ribs ached, and his head throbbed, and his extremities felt nothing at all. He couldn't have left if he tried.

Although that didn't mean he wasn't going to.

With a grunt of discomfort and exertion the detective heaved himself up on one knee, then staggered gracelessly to his feet. Just this simple action left him dazed with exhaustion. His legs shook from the strain and sweat dampened his brow, smearing his eyeliner as it trickled down his face.

Slowly, deliberately, he clenched his trembling hands into fists and raised them like a weary, yet determined boxer. He then slipped into a loose fighting stance, fists shoulder-high, legs slightly bent, weight evenly balanced. The way he was weaving back and forth however, had nothing to do with his meager strategy. His strength was nearly sapped.

Stan's broad form swam before Sherlock's eyes as he continued his advance. A smirk twisted his boyishly freckled face at the detective's pitiful display of resistance.

"So it's a fight you fancy? Alright, if it's a fight you want, then a fight you'll get!" He too adopted a boxer's pose.

They circled, Stan with poise and confidence, and Sherlock with a significant lack of both. While his opponent prowled, he shambled, disgusted by his lack of control.

Without warning, one of Sherlock's knees buckled, and he lurched alarmingly forward. Taking advantage of this weakness, Stan swooped in with a blow aimed at the detective's nose. It connected with a nauseating crunch. Blood coursed down Sherlock's face and neck to stain his black shirt even darker. As he reeled, Stan lunged forth again.

Sherlock raised his arms to soften the inevitable strike, and reflected _perhaps trying to fight my way out wasn't the brightest thing to do… But it wasn't my fault! It was the drug! Now, under normal circumstances- _Stan's next punch struck, reducing the detective's carefully ordered thoughts to a shower of multi-colored stars. Drugged or otherwise, he needed a method of escape or else things could only get worse.

~SH~

"So… Sherlock is being held my one of Moriarty's men in the janitor's lounge of a gay bar?" John said incredulously. Out of all the bizarre predicaments Sherlock had been stranded in, this was at least in the top twenty.

"And he's been drugged," added Anthea. _Plus he's slathered with hair gel and makeup, _John supplied mentally. Perhaps this one was deserving of a place in the top ten… If there were any more situations to follow.

He could be too late. It might be Sherlock's mangled corpse that would greet him when he arrived. Or maybe there wouldn't be a corpse. Maybe they had abducted him. An image of a bruised and defeated Sherlock bound to a chair in some deserted warehouse sprang unbidden to his mind. Startled, he wrenched his thoughts away, but the disturbing picture remained.

The magnitude of worry John experienced for his friend increased ten-fold. Life without Sherlock was simply no longer an option for him. That avenue of possibility had been shut off. His mind, like a circuit-breaker, just directed his thoughts in another direction. That wouldn't happen. He wouldn't let it happen. And heaven help anyone who dared to get in his way.

Anthea's phone chirped, rousing him from his vengeful thoughts. As her eyes swept the message typed upon its glowing screen, her face brightened somewhat, and her gleaming lips bowed into a smile.

"That was Mycroft. He's requested Lestrade and some medical personnel. We don't know what condition Sherlock will be in when we arrive, so he ordered the best." John's worry-taut shoulders loosened slightly under his jumper. Familiar faces would be a huge relief for both him and Sherlock. Mostly him though.

The car purred to a stop in front of Club Pizzazz, and John leapt out in a flurry of nervous vindictive energy.

"Wait!" blustered Anthea, "Mycroft told me not to let you in until the police arrive to back you up! This is one of Moriarty's men we're dealing with!"

"Sod Mycroft and Moriarty both!" John snapped, already at the scratched and peeling door. "I'm going in, and no one, not even the Queen is going to stop me." With that, he rushed inside, not even bothering to shut the door behind him.

Back in the car, Anthea shook her head, dazed, yet enlightened. No wonder Dr. Watson and the younger Holmes brother had gotten so close. Both were impetuously brave and extremely determined, but most similarly of all, these virtues could easily lure them into situations of terrifying gravity. Now, would they be able to find their way out? Hopefully so… her job probably depended on it.

~SH~

As Stan's coiled fist connected with his already aching temple, Sherlock decided that his best course of action was to simply bow out now and form a better plan. He allowed the strength of the punch to drive him back, following the ark of motion until he overbalanced. Forcing himself to remain limp, he tipped backwards, toppling bonelessly to the ground. His back hit the floor with a resounding smack, jarring his throbbing ribs, and nearly wresting a shout of agony from his mouth. A split second later, his head followed. Glittering fireworks flashed behind his eyes, yellow, pink, and green. As the fireworks faded, so did everything else. Sherlock's eyes flickered closed, and the black he saw began to melt into white.

His vision drifting away into nothingness, the detective mentally cursed himself. What he had intended to do was _pretend _to pass out, not _actually _pass out! To truly faint invited nothing but confusion and trouble. He could not let that happen!

As luck would have it, while Sherlock battled for control over the all-encompassing white haze, the door rattled on its hinges.

Someone was trying to force their way in.

~SH~

**A/N: **Here's chapter two! You would not believe how nice reviews and epic music speed along the process of typing! Speaking of which, I thank all who have reviewed, favorited, or watched this story. I am eternally grateful for your kindness. My ego loves a little boosting now and then! ;)


	3. Fight to Conclusions

**Nail Polish **

_~Chapter Three~ _

**Fight to Conclusions **

John rammed his shoulder into the door again. This must be the janitor's lounge where Sherlock was being held. Why else would the door be bolted so securely?

With a hoarse snarl, he threw himself at it once more, and was gratified to see a shower of splinters and dust puff into the air. The door was old, and its construction poor. It was already buckling at the hinges.

Another shove and one of the rusting hinges gave entirely. Like a wild animal, he kicked and battered at what was left of the door until it fell aside, defeated by the doctor's wrath. He rushed over the threshold, adrenaline coursing furiously through his veins, only to be stopped short not two steps later by the bone-chilling tableau laid out before him.

Sprawled on the bare concrete floor was Sherlock, face awash with blood, sweat, and eyeliner. His head lolled feebly side to side, and his eyelids flickered as though he were in the grip of a ghoulish nightmare. The hem of his bloodied shirt had ridden up to his waist, exposing his alabaster skin. It was angrily inflamed and mottled with an alarming variety of aggressive scrapes and bruises.

John felt a pang of fury and regret He should've been there to prevent this!

More urgently frightening however, was the way Woodward stood at Sherlock's side. He balanced on one foot, the other poised waveringly above the detective's unguarded throat with a cold glint in his eye.

"Make one more move, and I snap his neck," he hissed, gripping the sofa arm for support. John froze on the spot. Everything about him was still, save for his fists which clenched and relaxed spasmodically.

Languidly Stan's mouth curved into a smile.

"You must be John Watson. Jim's told me about you too, although I wasn't really expecting to meet you tonight. A little unpredictability is refreshing when you are working against someone like Sherlock Holmes. He'll walk right into any trap, so long as it's clever enough for him." Incensed, John clenched his permanently set jaw a little tighter. Practically trembling with hatred toward Stan and his cruel jibes, he glanced down at their inert target.

Sherlock had gone eerily still. If not for the billowing rise and fall of his chest, he could've been a stone-cold cadaver for some makeup experiment gone awry. His eyes were closed; he must have finally given in to unconsciousness.

John's brow furrowed perplexedly. That couldn't be right. Sherlock never gave in under any circumstances unless it was on his own terms. If necessary, he would fight to the last breath, armed with only sheer spite and strength of will to achieve his goal. Never would the great Sherlock Holmes allow such a human thing as a faint decide the outcome for him. Surely he was faking.

The doctor's suspicions were confirmed when Sherlock's blue-grey eyes slid open, sharp, calculating, and very much aware. They roved first to John's face, then to Stan's foot, which still hovered menacingly over his neck. Darting around the room, they accessed the situation, finally coming to rest on Stan's other leg, the one supporting him. Once more they turned to John, then to Stan's leg, then back to John again, silently conveying his message: _I'll distract him. Be ready. _John nodded almost imperceptibly in confirmation.

Without a moment's hesitation, Sherlock curled into a ball and rolled forcefully into Stan's supporting leg. Caught unawares, Woodward stumbled, tripping over Sherlock's shoulder as he went careening underfoot. The criminal pitched forward, only to be met half way by a savage blow from John's fist which sent him reeling back from whence he came. As he staggered, blinded with pain, Sherlock extended a leg into his path at about shin level. Predictably, Stan tripped over it and plunged backwards, landing heavily in an ungainly heap.

Like a slavering pack of wolves John fell upon him, pummeling him mercilessly with fists and feet alike. Stan retaliated by bunching his limbs to his chest beneath John's truck, then heaving him bodily aloft and roughly slamming him to the floor.

Over and over they scuffled, a sweaty aggressive mass of flailing arms and scrabbling legs, fighting for all or nothing. They grappled viciously, neither man staying on top for long, until Stan managed to seize a clump of John's hair and ruthlessly bash his head against the floor. Stunned, John went limp. His opponent heaved him upright by his shirtfront, then violently sank his fist into the doctor's stomach. The wind left John's lungs in a strangled _whoosh_! He crumpled weak-kneed against the wall behind him, wheezing desperately.

Stan was there in a heart-beat, clamping his hands around the doctor's throat before he could draw breath. Helpless, John plucked at them impotently as colored spots swam before his eyes.

"Nice try, doctor," Stan grunted, blood dribbling from his split lip. "You fight well. Too bad I've got to kill you." John's eyes rolled up into his head, and an unearthly rasp escaped his lips as his last vestiges of strength drained away. Their only hope was Lestrade… if he arrived on time.

As his extremities began tingling, he suddenly noticed a shadowy figure bearing down on them from behind with a chair raised high over its head. _Sherlock, _he realized vaguely. He had made the mistake of thinking the detective was down for the count.

Evidently so did Stan. Upon hearing footsteps behind him he, assuming Moriarty had arrived, called out,

"I've got Holmes, Jim! Watson as we-," he swiveled his neck to better see the new arrival, only to be stopped mid-word when Sherlock swung the chair with all his might, catching Stan with a direct hit to the chin. It wasn't the most decisive blow considering his condition, but it was enough to loosen Stan's grip on John's neck.

While the doctor slumped, gasping, to the floor, Stan whirled on Sherlock. A guttural roar like a battle-cry burst from him as he backhanded the detective fiercely across the face. Sherlock went down like a shack in a storm gale, smacking his head against the protruding wooden corner of the sofa as he fell. Unconsciousness took him by force; this new trauma was too much for his abused body to handle.

Stan bore down on him, a malicious leer twisting his face.

"So, he _is_ human," he marveled wryly, nudging the detective's boneless form with his foot. "What a supri-"For the umpteenth time that night, Stan Woodward didn't get to conclude his sentence.

John had by now recovered sufficiently, and having gotten to his feet, could clearly see the damage done to his friend. From this distance, he couldn't tell if he was breathing still. A red haze shrouded the room, and a deep primeval desire to inflict misery crushed his rational judgment flat. So this was what bloodlust felt like.

With a level of speed and strength he never knew he had, John bolted across the room, and seized the abandoned chair. He raised it over his head, and finishing what Sherlock had started, brought it down as hard as he could on Woodward's head. The force of the blow was enough to knock him out on the spot. He keeled over without a sound, save for a muffled thud when he hit the floor.

Warily, John stood over him, chair in position, ready to strike again if necessary. But Woodward didn't even twitch. The doctor jabbed him with his foot. No movement. Out cold.

A grim half-smile spread across John's craggy face. The irony of the situation simply tickled him pink. Barely a minute ago, Stan had been poking Sherlock with his shoe. Oh, how the tables had turned!

Then it hit him: Sherlock!

In a panic, John rushed to the detective's prone form and knelt by his side. Miraculously, he was already stirring, trying to dredge himself from the murk of insentience. Gingerly, John reached out and clasped Sherlock's shoulder to speed the process along.

Before he could do much else, Sherlock wrenched himself abruptly away, as if by reflex. His eyes flew open, still clouded by a delirious fog. One fist swung feebly at John's head, but it missed by a long shot. The doctor caught it, and held it fast as its owner struggled pathetically in his grasp.

"Sherlock! What are you doing? It's John! Stop it!" It was like the words had flicked a switch. The fear and fight seeped from Sherlock's body, and confusion faded from his eyes. He sagged to one side, propping himself up against the sofa, a dejected ragdoll lacking support.

"John," he stated tiredly. Just that, nothing more.

"Yes?" The doctor prompted. A scenario with a wordless Sherlock was alarming, considering his usual vociferous tendencies.

"I was in error," he choked as though the words scalded his tongue. "I thought you were him. Couldn't be caught off guard…" 'Him' must mean Woodward. Shaking off a surge of intense dislike, John asked,

"How do you feel?" Sherlock blinked dazedly, pondering the question. Frowning, he pressed his palms to his temples and muttered plaintively,

"He upset my filing cabinets." Mind Palace, supposedly.

"Headache?" The detective nodded, then winced. "How many fingers am I holding up?" He raised three into the air before Sherlock's eyes.

"I'm not concussed, John!" he protested, batting them aside. "See, depth perception and hand-eye coordination are functioning well, no nausea or lingering dizziness of any kind. I'm fine, save for some bruising."

"Like hell you are," grumbled John, unconvinced. "Your nose is almost certainly broken-"

"So?" Sherlock griped, probing delicately at it with his long fingers. "A broken nose isn't life-threatening." Determined to have his friend say reason, John pressed both hands firmly on the detective's side. Emitting an indignant noise that could only be described as a yowl, Sherlock twisted away. Triumphant, John declared,

"Hurt, didn't it? That means injuries to the trunk and chest cavity. _Those_ canbe life-threatening."

"Was that _really _necessary?" Sherlock inquired petulantly, folding his arms around his chest.

"Absolutely," John countered. "Where does it hurt the most?" Rolling his eyes, Sherlock snapped,

"Enough frivolous questions! My head aches, it feels like someone attacked my face with a battering ram, my ribs are severely bruised, possibly cracked, but that's it, aside from a bit of bruising elsewhere from when I fell. Happy now?" Taking the matter-of-fact recitation in stride, John queried,

"Are you in shock then?"

"No! Honestly, do I _look _like I'm in shock? I haven't even got a blanket!" This unexpected joke sent John reeling off his serious doctor course of action. With a chuckle, he replied,

"You're being humorous, that's a little worrisome. I'll have to get you checked out for that." Sirens caterwauled urgently from outside, interrupting John's diagnosis.

"Oh goody, Lestrade's here," Sherlock deadpanned. "He's getting slower, don't you think?"

"Thinking doesn't become me," returned John with an ironic smirk. "Now, we'd best go meet him and tell him about this." He jerked a thumb in the comatose Woodward's direction. Sherlock nodded.

"Alright. Just a minute…" He scooted on his rear end to the other side of the sofa, fished around beneath it for a moment, then withdrew, one hand clutching his mobile phone. Holding it to his ear, he said with false cheer, "Hello, Mycroft." From the other side of the line, Mycroft's tinny voice exclaimed,

"_Sherlock! Are you hurt? Have the police arrived yet? Is-_"

"Goodbye, Mycroft." Already fed up with his brother's endless queries, the detective briskly hung up.

"You should really try to be nicer to him," John chastised reproachfully. "He's the one who arranged this rescue, you know."

"It wasn't a rescue!" exploded the detective. "It was an… assisted escape. I could've handled it myself."

"Mhm, of course you could've, drugged out of your mind with Moriarty on his way. Not to mention his muscle man over there." Bristling, Sherlock peevishly barked,

"Fine, I'll send him a thank you card or something. Are we done here?"

"Yes, yes, no need to be so testy!" John helped the detective to his feet, where he stood, swaying slightly, staring pensively at the door. Momentarily he ordered,

"Give me your hand." John quizzically obliged, and Sherlock clutched it with a cast-iron grip. Clumsily, he threaded his fingers through John's until their hands were intertwined, locking them together.

"What are you doing!" yelped John, trying to tug away.

"Making our exit slightly less suspicious," murmured Sherlock, dabbing at his blood-encrusted cheek with a clump of his ruined shirt. "If we hold hands like this, we will be marked as a couple, and this place is positively crawling with couples, so we'll blend right in. Also, this seems like a place that might see a fist fight or two, so our injuries won't seem out of the ordinary."

"Clever as always," John acquiesced sarcastically, grudgingly surrendering his hand.

"Indeed. I never lose my head."

"You walloped a man with a chair. I don't think that qualifies as cool and composed."

"He walloped me first! Besides, you must've finished the job; look at the state of that thing!"

"I never said anything about _me_ staying calm. Now let's get this over with. Lestrade probably thinks you're dead." Hand in hand, they slipped through the bar as inconspicuously as possible, considering their appearances. Pale, blood-soaked, and disheveled, Sherlock looked like he could've walked right out of some low-budget zombie film, bad makeup and all. John had turned tomato red, and was sweating copiously under his jumper. Holding hands with his flat-mate in the middle of the night at a gay bar… people were _definitely _going to talk!

The flat-mate in question however, didn't bat an eye as they stepped through the exit into the caution-tape strewn scene around them. He hardly twitched when nearly a dozen police handguns were trained reflexively on his head (whereas John nearly wet himself) and just barely smiled when they were lowered with shouts of relief.

A group of armed gunmen headed by Lestrade charged up to meet them. The detective- inspector opened his mouth as if to speak, but Sherlock cut him off.

"The culprit is in the janitor's lounge, out cold, I'm afraid." Lestrade gestured, and the gunmen rushed inside.

"Who was-"

"Woodward," interrupted Sherlock again. "It's Woodward. He, and, by extension, Moriarty were behind this. Can you bring him in for questioning _now_?" he asked frustratedly. Smoothing his bristly grey hair, Lestrade sighed,

"The lengths you go just to say 'I told you so.' Oy, wait a minute!" he exclaimed, as the detective started sidling away with the doctor in tow, "What happened to you?" Wincing, Sherlock turned back, disappointed that his sneaky escape had been thwarted. "You ought to get that checked out. There's an ambulance and some paramedics out back, just as a precaution."

"Thanks," smiled John. "We were just heading that way, weren't we Sherlock?"

"We were?"

"Oh, yes. Later, Lestrade." With those parting words, John proceeded to drag Sherlock in the direction of the ambulance.

"No! No, wait! Stop!" protested the detective, digging his heels into the concrete like a reluctant child. "John, we never agreed to this! You can't go carting me off to hospitals willy-nilly!"

Actually, you'll find I can," John grunted, grimly determined.

"Lestrade!" yelled Sherlock over his shoulder, "Bring the bartender in for questioning as well. He was in on it too; he drugged my drink!" Helpless to do or say anything more, he was ushered firmly away. As they wound their way through a myriad of parked police vehicles, they came across none other than-

"Molly?" said John, 'What are you doing here?" He face, harshly illuminated by lights of flashing red and blue brightened when she saw them.

"They wanted someone from the morgue along in case there were… bodies to deal with," she peeped softly. "I'm glad I didn't have to do my job today!" When her lackluster attempt at humor heralded no results, her cheeks reddened, and she attempted to remedy the situation by saying, "I-it's not that I don't like my job. It can be somewhat gruesome at times, but… but…" She trailed off despairingly, her eyes suddenly attracted by a new spectacle: John and Sherlock's tightly clasped hands.

Her already piping voice raised an octave as she shrilled,

"Er… I-I'd best go check the… the… oh dear…" Eyes bright with dismay and unshed tears, she scurried past them and into a throng of forensics workers.

John groaned, and pinched the bridge of his nose with his free hand. Genuinely perplexed, Sherlock wailed,

"What's not good? I didn't even say anything!"

Oh God Sherlock, are you really so thick?" snapped the doctor. "Hands. Nails. Makeup." For once, all the world's only consulting detective had to say was,

"Oh."

'She thinks you're gay! And that you and I are… Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit!" Roughly, he shook his hand out of Sherlock's grasp. "We're leaving now. Where's that bloody ambulance?" As John scanned around for it, his colleague, thinking on his toes, casually asked,

"What's the name of that assistant of Mycroft's? Anthea, yes?"

"Your point is?" John responded irritably.

"Well, her car is parked right over there on the curb. I'm sure she wouldn't begrudge us a ride home." Slyly he watched the doctor mull over the idea. A swift, anonymous ride back to Baker Street was just the kind of miracle transport they needed. But…

"What about you? You could use some medical attention." Sherlock attempted to wrinkle his nose, thought better of it, then said pacifyingly,

"You're a doctor. The first aid kit is in the bathroom cabinet. Please, John?" The doctor sighed defeatedly, in no mood to put up a disapproving front.

"Fine. But if your nose is permanently disfigured, you have no one to blame but yourself."

"And Stan Woodward."

"Him too."

"And Lestrade."

Why?"

"If he had just arrested Woodward when I told him to, my face would still be intact." John couldn't help but grin at Sherlock's unjustly vengeful attitude.

All it took was a brief dressing-down from the younger Holmes brother to get Anthea to cave in and give them a ride. They clambered inside, then drove away, eager to take their leave of this sordid crime scene.

~SH~

As one sleek black vehicle departed, another arrived, slinking around the corner, a panther with glowing headlights for eyes. There it skulked in a moment of indecision as its driver adjusted his chauffer's cap and said in a grating voice,

"The police are here, sir. What should we do?" From the back seat, his passenger sighed melodramatically, and swept an imaginary speck of dust from his designer suit jacket.

"Oh pooh, why must they always spoil my fun?" he lamented in a voice as cloyingly, dangerously sweet as poisoned honey. "I suppose that means dear Sherlock got away. More fun for next time, then. Turn around; all the action's passed us by."

"But what about Mr. Woodward, sir?"

"Leave him. He bungled his task, and I don't tolerate such things. There is no use for him now."

"I thought you and he-"The chauffer was interrupted when his passenger laughed a sinister, tinkling laugh. Sharp white teeth glinted in the low light as he chortled,

"No, stupid, we aren't! At least I'm not. I hooked him like a fish on a line; it was that easy. I admit though, it was adorable the way he scurried frantically around trying to please me. Hell, he even kidnapped his own sister for me! He was a nice plaything, but he's ordinary. Worthless. I can just as easily find another. Now, speaking of worthless things…" Brown eyes still gleaming with unhinged mirth, he burrowed into his silk-lined suit pocket for his phone. Humming chipperly, he dialed a number, and waited.

Not long of course. No one dared to keep him waiting.

When the voice at the other end of the line answered, he warbled,

"Hi, you know that girl we picked up? Stan's sister? Yeah, he made a little oops-a-daisy, so I had to let him go. All bets are off on the girl. Do whatever you want. Bye!" He drew out the last word in a shivering falsetto, and then hung up.

Gesturing for the chauffer to drive, James Moriarty settled back into his seat, a satanic grin crinkling his face. He may have lost today, but that didn't matter. There would always be time for more games.

~SH~

**A/N: **Third chapter! The epilogue will be coming up soon, don't worry! This chapter made me feel bad for Stan while I was writing it. First the poor guy has issues with his parents about his sexuality, and then he gets caught up with Moriarty, walloped by a chair, and beaten up by an angry army doctor. Not to mention his sister's fate. Yikes.

Just a little disclaimer: Stan in no way represents my outlook on the gay community. Obviously not all gays are creepy psychotic hit men. It's all fine, folks.

Thanks for favoriting, watching, reviewing, reading, etc.!


	4. Epilogue: Debeautified

**Nail Polish **

_~Epilogue~_

**Debeautified **

The following day at 221b consisted of accomplishing one thing: debeautifying Sherlock Holmes.

His blood-stained skin-tight clothes were the first things to go, having been unceremoniously shed and dropped into the bin upon arrival. Hair gel and makeup both were washed away during that morning's shower. Their unapplied kin were disposed of soon after, having simply been chucked out the open window, much to the dismay of several unfortunate pedestrians below.

After the resulting kerfuffle had been dealt with, a full sweep of the flat was conducted for any magazines, how-to books, or websites that addressed the issues of style and beauty. Shortly thereafter, another search took place upon the finding of a stray mascara wand that had escaped their notice. One could never be too careful.

Finally, after a quick cup of tea, Sherlock had sat down at the kitchen table to deal with his nails. Despite any picking, scraping, or rubbing, the red coating stubbornly refused to budge. In a frenzy, he sent John out to purchase a bottle of nail polish remover. Meanwhile, to calm his nerves, he set to work on a piece of very important correspondence.

Just as he sealed the envelope, John returned, looking rather harried, and clutching a rustling plastic bag. Angrily he slammed it down on the table, rattling a Bunsen burner that smoldered pungently by Sherlock's elbow.

"Chip and Pin issues?" he asked as he scribbled down an address.

"However did you guess?" muttered John acidically. When the detective opened his mouth to spout some inane bits of evidence, the doctor exclaimed,

"I was being sarcastic!"

"Of course. Now put this letter out for the post." Knowing it was pointless to argue, John simply did as he was bade to do. That is, until he saw the address.

"For Mycroft?"

"Yes," said Sherlock, uncapping the nail polish remover. "It's a thank you card. He did organize my… extraction after all, as you've insisted on reminding me, oh… fifteen times now." Utterly nonplussed, the doctor strove valiantly to come to terms with the situation.

"A _thank you card_… for _Mycroft_!"

"Yes, that's what I said," Sherlock grumbled impatiently, blotting solemnly at his nails with a chemical-soaked cotton swab.

"You feeling okay?"Never under normal circumstances would Sherlock do something so… kind. Perhaps that whack on the head he took was more severe than he originally suspected…

"Perfectly fine. You made sure of that when you patched me up last night," the detective responded. In the paranoid doctor segment of his mind, John was positive that his friend's eerily calm demeanor masked some kind of shock. Or concussion symptoms. Or delirium. Or all three!

"Are you sure?" he crept forward like one trying to approach a spooked horse, with the intention of… What did he intend? To truss Sherlock up in a straightjacket and ship him off to the loony bin, maybe?

"Before you make inquiries as to the state of my mental health, I'll have you know that the card has been liberally sprinkled with itching powder. It's wonderful stuff; Mycroft won't be able to sit still for a week, at least." He lobbed the used cotton swab in John's direction, hitting him lightly on the head. "Now, pop along won't you, the post will be collected any minute now." John considered the seemingly innocent envelope, his taste for mischief warring with his conscience.

"I shouldn't let you send this…" he said slowly.

"But…?" prompted the detective as he set to work with another swab.

"But it _would _be a laugh to see prim and proper Mycroft squirm for once in his life."

"I knew you'd see things my way," Sherlock beamed. "Everyone does eventually." Mischief had one out.

"Sherlock, you are the devil incarnate!" deadpanned John with mock disapproval.

"Then what does that make you?" the detective retaliated with a glimmer of mirth in his eye.

"Hopelessly sinful, and it's all your fault!" with that, John turned on his heel, and marched from the room.

~SH~

A few minutes later, all was peaceful and quiet. The itchy letter had been sent, the flat debeautified, and the case closed. John sat down with a freshly made cup of tea and a new crossword, eager to just relax a while. Leaning back against his flag-embossed pillow, pen in hand, he set to work on the first column. Life was good.

Then, as if on cue, a thunderous sound issued from the kitchen, a crackling rush of air accompanied by a yelp from Sherlock. It made John lurch in his seat, slopping tea down his front, and scrawling a great accidental line across his puzzle. Once he had steadied himself, he shouted,

"What happened Sherlock?" _And couldn't it have waited another thirty minutes!_

A storm of dry coughing answered him, along with some billowing curtains of smoke.

"Are you alright?" concerned, John sprang from his seat, and hurried into the kitchen. Sherlock sat at the table, clutching the charred remains of a cotton swab. Streaks of ash stained his face, and his curls were blasted back from his forehead. Stray sparks still scattered across the tabletop. The Bunsen burner that once smoldered so innocently was now ablaze, undoubtedly the source of this destruction.

"Yes," hacked Sherlock. "But I was able to discover first-hand why one is supposed to keep nail polish remover away from open flames."

"You didn't do it on purpose… did you?"

"Of course I didn't," the detective wheezed, brushing a glowing ember from his knee. "I'm a sociopath, not a pyromaniac. I just knocked it over!"

"Okay," John drawled, not entirely convinced. "I still wouldn't put it past you to do something of that sort." With a hoarse sigh, Sherlock blew him off, mournfully surveying the scorched kitchen.

"Whether I would do it or not doesn't matter. I can guarantee you that either way, Mrs. Hudson is _not_ going to like it!" The day must have been written as a comedy of errors: as soon as the words left Sherlock's lips, Mrs. Hudson's voice trilled from downstairs.

"Boys? I think I smell something burning. Are you two alright? I'm coming up to check." The 'boys' exchanged an agonized glance. It seems they now had a good deal of explaining to do…

**~The End~ **

**A/N: **That's all, folks! Thanks for reading, reviewing, watching, favoriting, everything! Without your motivation and support, this story wouldn't be here. I love you all, and don't forget to review!


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